A Drink to His Discontent
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: Story set after Defiance, during the Blood Omen Timeline. What if the barkeeper of Ziegsturchl actually stayed open after sunset? And what if someone actually got that drink he wanted–a drink that cost him his humanity?


**Disclaimer****: I do not own Legacy of Kain, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Eidos, Crystal Dynamics, and their respected owners.  **

**Synopsis****: Story set after Defiance, during the Blood Omen Timeline. What if the barkeeper of Ziegsturchl actually stayed open after sunset? And what if someone actually got that drink they wanted–a drink that cost them their humanity?  **

**A Drink to His Discontent.******

The last brilliant rays of the sun began to fade over the dense horizon, it's dying beams a cautioned forewarning. The day was drawing to a close, and soon the night and everything within it would come.

It was wise to close shop and leave before the impending iniquity arrived…

Tired eyes stared at the window; a sense of longing could be seen within the placid grey depths. All day, business had gone accordingly: dull and redundant. The same, familiar rugged faces—and those not so familiar—came to the tavern to quench their thirst and have a moment's peace, filled with merriment and laughter.

It was during these dark times that laughter was scarce, and in some cases, almost forgotten. A happy moment, although considered trivial, was welcome around such common establishments. To some, the village tavern was like a sanctuary, and its keeper a blessed saint.

A rugged sigh escaped the tavern owner as he cleaned another dirty glass. A faint smirk reached his leathery lips. His clientele would have his head if they knew he never washed the glasses. Why should he when it was a woman's job?

His smirk was replaced with a frown, the deep lines within his face making him appear older. Sadly, his female hand had met a tragic end the other night…   

A vivid memory of the funeral came to mind. The gangly chit was no more than fourteen summers, a blacksmith's daughter, who, daydreamed when work was needed to be done. It was his habit to chastise the wench whenever the situation called for it. Especially when she ignored patrons and their desire for a drink.

He remembered her constant gawking at her reflection in the ale glasses, and the incessant humming that came with it. He rolled his eyes to the darkening heavens. Would it be considered cruel if he felt a tinge of happiness for her saddened removal? But of course he no longer had anyone to reprimand, discipline. After his patrons left he would find a sense of loneliness before closing.

His thoughts returned to the present as he cleaned the last glass. Setting it with the others on the makeshift shelf he glanced around the empty tavern to see if everything was in place. Wooden tables with scarred surfaces gleamed within the dim lamplight—wobbly chairs were shoved carelessly under them. The floor, although stained from various accidents over the years, could be considered as clean.       

Wiping his craggy face with a rough hand, he set the cleaning cloth aside and began to put out the lamps. One by one, the burning flames fell to his mercy, their short lives extinguishing before his eyes - the hot wax beginning to congeal and settle along the candle staffs.

Another sigh escaped him as he began to bar the windows. One could not be too careful when it came to the welfare of one's possessions. And sadly, this lowly hovel _was_ his only possession. Well, the only possession that was worth anything.

The people of Ziegsturchl were considered overly cautious, but their reasons were justified. 

A traveler may ask why close when so much business could transpire during the night. The question would be legitimate, yes. However, so many reasons weighed against it. Even though an establishment could attain more business, other concerns came with it. A skeptic would consider the reasoning behind such an explanation as trite and cowardly. Why fear the night?

Why indeed?

Obviously for those foreign to the land, they would not know about the dangers of traveling at night. Hence, many taverns and inns had the policy of staying indoors after sunset. Some would object to the reasoning of this, others merely muttering opinions under their breath. Their conjectures, reasonable as they were, were not in favour to the wisdom of those native to the area. Thus, many foreigners found themselves in paupers' graves.

It was just as well. The dim-witted would actually be doing the rest of the world a favour by departing with their unwanted company. It was a shame the world could not contain more interesting people. But as times being what they were, intelligent individuals were truly hard to come by.

The middle-aged bartender barred the last window, silently making his way back to the bar. Keeping his gaze to the floor he thought of returning home to his empty household. No one would be waiting for him there after a hard day's work. His belovéd wife had departed with her company twenty years before, taking their stillborn child with her. He also lost his faith in the gods that day as well. All that remained now was a cynical, overworked tavern owner.

Shaking his morose thoughts aside, he noticed someone sitting at the bar. A million questions raced through mind as he reluctantly moved forward. He never noticed anyone coming in to the tavern, not even when he was near the door. How could he not notice something so obvious? Strange… Very strange.

He silently observed the pious figure. A dark cloak covered most of the body, the hood draping over the figure's head. From the stature and stance of the person, he discerned it to be a man, well built at that. A few strands of white hair fell away from the hood's opening, revealing a strange quality about the foreigner.

But what was more stranger was the extraordinary weapon splayed against the foreigner's back. The sword had ill-favoured look with its skull-like hilt and arcane curved edge. He could almost swear that he saw a trace of blue energy gleam within the dark eye sockets. A hand of man did not make the weapon; of that he was certain.

It would be best if he sent this enigmatic stranger on his way.

Clearing his throat, he said, "I'm closing, sir."

The stranger did not move, instead he muttered, "Surely you would not deny a man a simple cup of ale. I can pay you well…"  
The bartender's dark brows pressed together. Those words sounded familiar. However, he could not place where he had heard them. Shaking his head, he moved behind the bar. Keeping his eyes to the floor - for he would not dare look at the stranger—he refrained, "I'm closing."

A stilted silence filled the immense room. The bartender's heart raced as he felt his unwanted patron's gaze scrutinize him. "You fear like the others," he noted blandly. "Why do you fear the night?"

It was a question he wanted to avoid, but the voice behind the inquiry compelled him to speak, reveal every dark secret and sin within his soul. "It is wise to fear the night," he began timidly. "Bad things happen when the darkness overshadows the land."

The stranger nodded. "Indeed. But tell me, would the same atrocities not occur during the day as well?"

By the dark gods, this man was educated. "I suppose so," the bartender admitted sheepishly.

He waited for the mysterious traveler to speak, but only received silence. Desiring to be rid of the nagging pestilence he quickly filled a mug with his best ale, making sure the mug was clean before he relinquished it.

"You know, I once thought as you do," the stranger mused, as if not directing his comment toward the bartender. A deep, ominous chuckle escaped him. "But no longer."

Before he could make a comment to the stranger's odd meaning, his uninvited guest continued:

"I passed by here not long ago. It feels like ages have passed, though," he murmured thoughtfully, eyeing the contents of the glass. "I must admit nothing has changed. But why would it? Humanity has never been original." He glanced at the bartender's vagrant expression and continued. "I'm sure you've heard a lot of poor, pathetic souls confess their pitiful life's story in a drunken stupor."

The bartender could only nod in agreement, fearful of interrupting his client's perverse discourse. A dark, foreboding tension pulsated within the stranger, and he, fighting to keep it at bay. What happened to make this man so cynical, even be on the verge of blaspheming his kind?

"One could consider my life as privileged. Indeed, even one such as you would believe my life being so; filled with pleasures and the finery of the realm—even I believed as much. My noble name allowed me to do anything I wanted without fear of the cost of my actions…"

The stranger lightly tapped the brim of the mug with unseen fingers, the light melodic tune echoing within the distance. "In my youth, my faith in the gods had always been in question. Personally, I could care less about the destination of my soul. The prospect of visiting Hell had always been an enticing offer…" He smirked under the dark cloak. "Shall I describe it to you? It is truly a place to visit!" He chuckled at his dark jest.

Saying nothing to the contrary, the bartender feigned at wiping a clean glass - his eye fixed on the task at hand. His guest heavily sighed, as if guilt from the passing centuries weighed upon his soul. Surely this man was not as ancient as he sounded.

The stranger regarded the mute proprietor under his dissecting gaze, noting the spotless glass in the bartender's dirty hands. The man was just like others, afraid to meet his eyes, or rather, afraid to find what lay within their hellish depths. It was wise of the man to display a subtle veil of fear; he should after his careless actions. But now was not the time to brood over past mistakes or regrets. It was time to live in the present and consider what was to be done.

"I suppose you believe every man has a destiny, a purpose in life?" His question went unanswered. Smiling, he muttered, "I was barely thirty when that belief was shattered. After my harsh realisation, I proceeded to expressmy undying _gratitude_ to the ones who _kindly_ enlightened me. I must say they were not very pleased with the display of my humble appreciation…"

A single white strand of hair fell away from the hood, moving listlessly in front of his concealed face. "I continued on my journey—a new man, if you will. I had a different view of the world, and no one from my past could change my mind otherwise. At first, I desired to reform and return to the life I once knew, and for a period of time, I tried to revert to that existence…" He paused briefly. "…But sometimes change can overcome your altruistic notions, and drive a stake through your ignorant convictions. You could say that I learned that lesson in a harsh manner…"

Harsh manner? The bartender silently swallowed. For some unknown reason he did not wish to know the details.

"Noted figures who were idolised for their ideas and justifications fell to a world of concrete reality. The end to their disillusionment did not save those who were tainted by its corruption. No, the very plague still exists even today," he spoke bitterly. "A just army of knights could not purge those corrupted from the eternal darkness.

"It's a shame when such infection can spread and cause a gaping wound to fester and rot away the flesh. There is no cure, no hope to overcome the grim conclusion. Everyone you ever cared for, ever loved will also fall victim to its insidious cruelty."

He was silent for a moment, as if compelling himself to proceed.

"Everyone has lost something dear, I'm sure. I am not excluded from that fate," he murmured with a sense of dejection. "I have lost just as much as the next fool—perhaps even more…

"After I cast aside the remaining ounce of what I once considered important, I felt no guilt for my actions, moving forward without regret. One cannot live a contented life with the weak, human quality," he spat. "Not even when it affects those you know.

"For a time, I found my existence to hold meaning, a true purpose. I enjoyed the pleasures bestowed upon me, taking for granted what I desired. My children also reveled in the victories and gains of our prestigious lifestyle…" His mood and tone of voice changed considerably. "I remember them as being ambitious—a quality they inherited from me…" he said smugly." Our lives were filled with pleasantries, but the once-glamourous lifestyle we reveled in began to dim, and soon a wave of disenchantment inundated our souls. Life began to be nothing more than a dull existence—forcing us to linger from one day to the next…

"It is in these times that tragedy strikes the hardest. And for once in what seemed like ages, I felt loss. I cannot say that I was filled with sadness, no. But I did feel a slight sense of sorrow for what had transpired… A more astute father would grovel in despair.

"I carried on, however, with my remaining sons. Our world was beginning to decay, and soon my children fell victim to it as well; only I stayed unaffected by the harsh changes… As I watched the foundations of my existence collapse, I turned away from my children, allowing them to do, as they desired. I had no concern for the troubles of the world. Not then, anyway…"

He watched the bartender reach for another glass, the grubby hands shaking in midair. Perhaps his demeaning monologue was beginning to unnerve the middle-aged proprietor. Oh, well…

"…My children…" he paused, as if the memory pained him. "…All of them are gone - leaving their father behind to dwell in a decaying world. My firstborn died with the knowledge of free will. Ha! It is merely an illusion for the rest of us." His voice became more venomous. "It is the same with love. Fortunately, I do not place my faith in it. A lover's betrayal is more deadly than an enemy's knife. At least, you expect the blade's sting. One is better off to live a life separately, forsaking the company of others. At least, some foolish mistakes can be avoided.

"But are our decisions truly ours to make?" he asked, a hint of uncertainty within his voice. "No. We are fated—doomed to play out the parts Fate has written for us… None of us are truly free…" 

The quiet ambiance between them began to feel more melancholy than overwrought. It was as if the enigmatic visitor's last comment brought a sense of amity, yet still obtaining a small amount of apprehension. Both owner and patron could possibly agree and share the same verdict: Fate was never kind.

And yet, the bartender's patron continued:

"…And yet, I still hold a small amount of hope," he muttered more to himself than his avid listener. His dark hood inclined in silence. "My son…my son gave me hope, hope for a real future. It was…his gift to me," he finished quickly.

_Mein Gott_. No one in his company had ever spoken so deeply—and with such conviction! This alleged noble sounded as if he were truly sincere and not bemoaning his dark cynicism. Good God, he had heard many wail over their losses and delve in their self-pity, which usually accumulated with the increased consumption of ale, but this man had not even touched his glass. Strange.

The bartender opened his mouth, trying to find the right words to say, but closed it when he noticed the much-needed silence his guest needed. The dark, invisible cloud of disenchantment had settled over them like a pall, unwilling to disperse and leave them in peace.

He watched, languidly, as the stranger moved away from his seat, pushing the glass toward him. Wait. He wanted to say. And although it was absurd of him to plead to a man he presumed to be nothing more than a beggar, he did not wish for his patron to leave so soon—their perverse discussion was truly interesting. Besides, he did not have the pleasure of knowing the man's name.

But as he was about to voice his banal opinion, a pair of hellish yellow eyes glared at him, silently demanding him to be silent. His blood chilled, the deadly ice shards piercing his heart from the sight of the feral orbs.

This man—this _thing_—was _not_ human.

The bartender refused to admit—even silently—what his guest was. How could he when the very prospect of it frightened the hell out of him? It would be a fitting end to his dismal life—where he had accomplished nothing. And yet, he felt no real threat from this man—this creature. It was as if his guest wished no ill will upon his person.

And with this silent comfort, he gathered enough courage to speak. "The drink is on me, guv'nor."

The figure stopped, and turned a fraction to meet the proprietor's gaze. Shaking his cloaked head, he muttered, "No. I always repay my debts…" And with that cryptic statement, he turned away once more, heading toward the door.

The bartender stepped away from the bar, ready to delay his nameless guest, but stopped as he watched something round and golden descend from the air. His breath caught as the metal sphere fell against the scarred bar's surface, its melodic voice singing a hauntingly beautiful song. His grey eyes watched it in perverse fascination, not paying attention to his patron's departure. His dark brows pierced together as he noted the oddity in his payment. He watched the debt stop its spinning—the coin landing on its edge.

.::Fin::.

**Author's Note: All right, I need to confess a few things… I must admit that I'm still not sure about every detail—I fear the entire story lacked... Especially when it concerns the tavern owner and his guest. It was somewhat difficult to not blatantly use names, instead. However, I did not under any circumstances, want to use Kain's name—or make up a name for the bartender. I believe it leaves a hint of mystery to the story, although you already know whom the characters are.  =)**

**Also, I know I barely touched upon the surface with Kain's thoughts and feelings toward Raziel and his sacrifice. I admit I have not finished Defiance, but from what I understand of the ending, Kain felt a bit of sadness to see Raziel exit in such a tragic way. And besides, did he not say something along the lines of actually having hope because of it. (I think, anyway...)**

**Let's see…was there anything else… Ah, yes, also just to clear up any confusion the part with Kain's thoughts about love…it could be taken either by his knowledge of betrayal, or his little tryst with Umah. I _know_ this is the original Kain, not the one from Blood Omen 2, where the events of Soul Reaver 2 caused a disruption in the Timestream. (God, that is so confusing!) Then again, the actions of Kain pulling the Blood Reaver from Raziel's chest in SR2 did cause him to receive new memories about the altered events of BO2. Be that as it may, I wanted to have a small mention of it, seeing as I do like Kain giving reference to something so trivial, so human as love.**

**Finally, (because I know I'm boring everybody with my horrid explanations…) I wish to say this fic was written because, in my deluded mind, I found it amusing to have Kain talk to the man who refused him a drink precious moments before his death! I mean, what if Kain returned to Ziegsturchl and actually talked to the tavern owner? I'm sure that he would have had the pleasure of killing the poor idiot when he was a fledging, but of course that was up to the player's discretion... But what if he didn't and actually had a conversation with him—and the bartender not having the slightest idea? I wanted to have Kain actually expressing his opinions to someone—and why not the bloody bartender? I know it's twisted, especially the ending. Careful readers will notice that I used actual quotations from the games—and the coin landing on its edge was too good to pass up!   **

**I have plans for another one-shot. However, I don't know when I'll find the time—and inspiration—to actually type it and post it–hopefully some time this summer. I fear my contributions to the LOK archive are by far too few, more's the pity… **


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